Regardless, she stuttered her way through inquiries about the weather and Captain Carnegie’s health.
“Malcolm rarely makes social calls,” Mrs. Carnegie said when Viola inquired after the third Penn-Leith sibling.
Viola took an instant liking to Mrs. Carnegie. Though significantly older than her brothers, humor sparked in her hazel eyes. Mrs. Carnegie seemed an eminently sensible woman, the sort who could be relied upon, no matter the situation.
“Besides, Malcolm is off tae Perth at the moment,” Ethan added. “Something about his coos.”
“His . . . coos?” Viola asked.
Mrs. Carnegie smiled. “His prized cows.”
“Och, don’t get Malcolm started in on coos.” Ethan gave a crack of laughter as bright as his grin. “It is the one topic upon which our brother will wax eloquent.”
“W-whyever for?” Viola asked, fingers fisted in her lap.
The thought of Malcolm Penn-Leith harboring a passion for cows seemed . . . incongruous.
And possibly a bit adorable.
Not that Viola was contemplating Malcolm Penn-Leith’s adorableness.
Mrs. Carnegie exchanged a glance with Ethan before speaking. “’Tis no great secret, I suppose. As ye may have heard, Malcolm’s wife passed away in childbirth nearly five years ago.”
Oh.
So hewasa widower. A man who had, once upon a time, had a wife.
“They were a love match,” Mrs. Carnegie continued, “and Malcolm, as ye can imagine, has found the loss of his wife and babe . . . difficult.”
“Aye. Bit of an understatement, actually.” Ethan’s sparkle dimmed. “Aileen was a lovely woman. We all miss her. Malcolm was, understandably, in a bad way after her death. Leah, here—” He lifted his chin toward his sister. “—and her husband lived at Thistle Muir for almost a year afterwards, didn’t ye?”
“Aye. Malcolm could scarcely eat, much less keep track of the house and farm. Someone needed to ensure he didnae hurt hisself.” Mrs. Carnegie—Leah—blinked back emotion.
Viola pressed a hand to her sternum, swallowing around an ache in her throat. To think of Malcolm, losing both his wife and baby in one harrowing day, drowning in the depths of grief and despair, . . .
Well.
“Before Aileen’s death,” Ethan said, “Malcolm had spent years breeding a new type of coo from the native cattle here in Angus. An animal that is longer through the body and produces superior beef. After Aileen’s passing, he dove headlong into promoting his new breed.”
“He has been remarkably successful,” Leah added, “attracting investors and shipping coos all over the world.”
“Did ye know he is now working with Sir Rafe Gordon on developing a similar type of Highland cattle?” Ethan mused to his sister. “That’s why he went off tae Perth.”
“Fox mentioned as much. Apparently, the queen herself has made overtures tae purchase cattle for the royal herds.”
“In short,” Ethan turned to Viola, “our brother doesn’t have much time for afternoon visiting hours, even if he were a dedicated conversationalist.”
Viola nodded and knew she should let the topic go—that her odd interest in the elder Penn-Leith brother was unhelpful—but she had to ask one more question.
“Does Mr. Malcolm Penn-Leith not t-talk much, then?”
“Nae,” Leah shook her head, “he has never been one to gnatter on, even as a wee boy.”
“Aye.” Ethan waved a dismissive hand. “I cannot imagine Malcolm in a parlor, sipping tea, and settling in for ablether.”
Hmmm.Neither could Viola, she supposed.
Instead, her mind supplied an image of her own timid self climbing the rugged moor above Fettermill, Malcolm reaching out a hand to help her up the steep path.
